Again

Again

Memory breaks. Reality repeats

By Joey Raines

The toilet handle had been broken so long that it had become part of the house. A crooked piece of metal, hanging uselessly, unmoving. For weeks, he ignored it. For months, he allowed it to remain the same. Until one night, he finally decided to fix it.

He lifted the lid from the tank. The porcelain was heavy, cool in his hands. He set it on the floor, and the hollow thud it made seemed louder than it should have been. Inside, the arm dangled, half-disconnected. He unclipped it, slid the new handle into place, clipped the chain, and pressed it down. The water rushed away with a sound that filled the room. He smiled. For the first time in months, it was fixed.

The next morning, it was broken again.

The handle sagged, bent at the same crooked angle as before. He stared at it, confusion pressing into him. He remembered fixing it. Not faintly, not as a half-thought, but clearly. The weight of the lid in his hands. The scrape of porcelain against the floor. The chain snapped onto the arm. The flush that had seemed final. But the evidence was here. Broken. As if none of it had happened.

So he fixed it again. Lift, thud, clip, flush. Perfect.

And then it broke again.

The days began to lose their shape. Each time he lifted the lid, it felt heavier. Each time the porcelain hit the floor, the sound was sharper, emptier. The chain snapped into place with the same exact click. The water rushed with the same exact tone. It all repeated too perfectly, as if rehearsed.

That was when the mirror began to trouble him.

At first, it was only a flicker. A sense that his reflection was not quite in step with him. Then, one evening, as he replaced the handle yet again, he caught sight of himself in the glass. His reflection lifted the tank lid before he did. His reflection smiled when his own mouth stayed still.

He froze, porcelain heavy in his hands. He looked at his reflection, and his reflection looked back. But there was something in those eyes that did not belong to him. A patience. A knowledge. As if the reflection remembered more repairs than he ever could.

He pressed the handle. The water swirled down. He told himself it was fixed.

The next morning, it was broken again.

By now, he was no longer sure what was memory and what was imagination. Had he fixed it yesterday, or last week, or a hundred times before? The bathroom no longer felt solid. The tiles looked painted on. The light above buzzed at the same pitch every time. The faucet dripped, each drop falling in perfect time. Again. Again. Again.

He turned his eyes to the mirror, searching for reassurance. But the reflection no longer mimicked him. It moved slower, then faster. It smiled when he trembled. It reached for the tank lid before he could. And its lips whispered words his ears could not hear.

He wanted to look away, but he could not. The mirror held him. The mirror knew.

He lifted the lid. The porcelain struck the floor with its hollow sound. He clipped the chain. The handle pressed down. The water swirled.

It was fixed.

Until tomorrow.

And in the glass, the reflection smiled first.

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